


Sick in the Head, Need to Bleed Dry to Quit

by alexa_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst Dean Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Delirium, Dirty Talk, Dominant/Top Sam, Fever sex, First Time, Frottage, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Kink, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Protective Sam Winchester, Sibling Incest, Sick Dean Winchester, Teen Angst, Underage Sex, mild dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/alexa_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wants and it has nothing to do with the fever in him and everything to do with what has always been wrong with Dean. That he should love his brother so much that it would bleed into ways it shouldn’t (also known as the one where Dean has a fever and Sam has a dirty sailor mouth).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick in the Head, Need to Bleed Dry to Quit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



FIC: Sick in the Head (Need to Bleed Dry to Quit)

Author: AlexaDean

Rating: NC-17 (explicit adult content)

Word Count: ~3,700

Warning/Spoilers: None really, but Sam might be considered underage in some U.S. States. (16-17-ish). Pre-Stanford.

Summary: Prompt fill for Maypoles on Geckoholic’s Hurt Dean Meme on LiveJournal.

~*~

 

He doesn’t know where he is or how he’s got here. Cheek damp against sheets on the wrong side of crisp, he feels around for his knife and comes up short. It prickles him, unease building in his chest. He’s cold and covered in sweat, naked save for a pair of boxers to keep him decent. He’s never been the kid with the runny nose and persistent cough, but he can’t deny he’s never felt worse.

He can smell familiar scents: salt and gunpowder, sun-warmed leather and Irish whiskey. Things he associates with his father, but when he looks around he can’t find him in the shadow-puddled corners of the room

He’s dizzy and not a little lost. Gathers his arms beneath him, close to his chest as he shivers, sheets bunched between his knuckles, eyes refusing to make sense of his surroundings: riotous color and licorice-purple dark. Half-alien sounds coming in through the walls.

Nothing ordinary about the blunt, sweet pressure in his bones, or the heat consuming him from inside his too-tight skin. Moisture collects in the swale of his back and the hair at his temples, leaves him feeling so cold it hurts to breathe. He’s never felt smaller. Or more unsure.

 _“Dad!”_  Pain shoots through him from the effort it took to be heard. It’s then he realizes he’s not alone.

“He’s not here,” Sam’s voice is like a current of cool water. “He went after the thing that bit you. Said it’s the only way to make this go away.” There’s resentment there, but Dean doesn’t see the point in acknowledging it. Can’t manage any more than a curt  _oh._

Sam doesn’t bother getting Dean to move over as he sits on the single bed, long thigh pressed close and warm to Dean’s side, comforting as a weapon in hand. Dean can hardly think, drawn by the gold-flecked shimmer of dust motes over Sam’s tawny skin, dancing on the peaks of his cheekbones, the up-tilt of his eyes.

Sam’s got a towel and basin on the nightstand and reaches for it, fragments of water slipping through Sam’s fingers like aniline glitter as he wrings the washcloth.

 _“Don’t—“_  Dean manages, flinching. “Touch me. I’ll kick your ass.” It’s very nearly a whisper, but he’s sure Sam hears it.

“You’re burning up,” Sam says. “It’s either this or the tub.”

Somehow, Dean knows Sam is not going to stand for any bullshit and if Dean fights, Sam would win anyway. Dean doesn’t have it in him to move at the moment. Can hardly even speak.

Sam’s eyes are steel blades over Dean’s body, heavy for someone as young as he is. Dean tightens up. Expects bitter cold, goose pimples forming over having his brother hover over him in the dim light.

The towel drops between his shoulder blades, blessedly warm. Sam’s hand warmer still as he drags it across Dean’s back; nothing but terrycloth and water between Dean’s skin and Sam’s touch. It thrills and terrifies in old and new ways.

He tries not to watch Sam’s face, still and pinch-mouthed. Knows it’s not the cooling water making him shake, no matter how much he wishes it were. Tickles low and hot in Dean’s belly, making all his tender parts grow heavy, nipples wrinkling taut, uncomfortable on the scratchy sheets-- Sam’s hand on his neck, swiping across his shoulders and the low of his back, waistband growing sodden with water.

He listens for tires sluicing through rainwater outside, the soft monotone of a television set next door, listens for anything to distract himself from Sam’s puppy-dog huge hands on his waist, spread wide enough to curl over his sides, gentle and sweet and undemanding.

Dean _wants_  and it has nothing to do with the fever in him and everything to do with what has always been wrong with Dean. That he should love his brother so much that it would bleed into ways it shouldn’t. Leaves Dean hot and wanting in the night from listening for Sam’s muffled pants—the hush-hush sound of him jacking his dick in the next bed over. Leaves Dean waiting for the moment Sam’s breaths even out with sleep, so he can do the same with the half-formed smell of Sam strong and sharp in his throat, his lungs. Sam so grown-up now that he’s as tall as Dean. Baby-faced and so beautiful it makes Dean’s heart wrench to be unable to press his lips against his little bow mouth.

He needs to leave the room.

 _Right now._  Knows he’s irrational from fever, stupidly reckless, wants to stand in the rain, wash away the sticky, bitter guilt covering him, as if there’s any chance for it to happen.

He rolls to his side, startling Sam.

“Dude,” Sam grumbles as water sluices onto his jeans from the basin.

“I can’t,” Dean begins, not knowing where he was going with it, _“Gotta—“_ He hopes his dad doesn’t find the monster that did this to him. Hopes to die from its bite, because this poisonous thing inside Dean—eating him alive—will someday see the light and he’ll do something he’ll regret forever. Like seduce his brother.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sam’s smile is a warning. “Got me? You’re stuck with me, man. Dad can take care of himself.”

Dean is a little relieved Sam misunderstood. And panic quickly replaces it with every passing minute he’s trapped in a room with his brother. His hands tremble on the bed, legs curled-in to hide his shame, desire so arrant it can only be foul.

Sam searches his face, confused and worried. “What is it, Dean? What’s wrong?”

 _I can’t sit here like this,_  Dean says silently,  _I can’t sit here and feel this for you._

Blood flushes to Dean’s face, chest going blanched and blotty. If he can’t say it aloud, maybe he can show Sam why, can bring him to an understanding. Dean doesn’t deserve his concern, and he’ll prove it. After all, he hasn’t got anything left to lose, really.

So he’s there, makes himself known, right there in Sam’s space, all eyes and hands and shivery kiss. Sam is stunned into stillness, as he should be, mouth slack and chaste against Dean.

Sam is going to hit him soon, going to punish him for being such a freak and a fuck-up.

But, he doesn’t. He fucking doesn’t.

Instead, Sam grabs him by the arms and pulls him closer, bends Dean all out of shape, and sucks the breath from his mouth—licking in, along his palate, teeth, lips—like he has to know Dean. All of him, the hidden terrain of unspoken words.

Fuck.

 _“Yeah,”_  Sam says as he breaks away. “Yeah,” gives Dean a slow assessing look that drags over Dean’s mouth, to cock, to legs, and back. Not passive in the slightest (as if Sam could ever be passive). It hits Dean where it counts, juts his cock up to peek out from the waistband as though spring-loaded.

Sam sees it and scrabbles to get his shirt up over his head, hair tossed by it and Dean is caught up staring at lean muscles, closer to man than boy. Sam makes a funny, scrunchy face at Dean, chewing on his lip.

“Don’t freak out, okay,” he says, seems bothered to turn his back to Dean, as if Dean could run away from this. But needs must, so Sam does, unlacing his boots, letting them thud on the floor to pull at his socks.

All Sam had to do was look over his shoulder to see Dean had no intention of moving away, but he goes for Dean like Dean’s fighting him off, feral and unstoppable and desperate: grabby hands and wet dirty kisses, not-so-bony knees parting Dean’s thighs, mattress creaking noisily under their combined weight.

Sam simplified to movement and need, as he pushes Dean’s shoulders, holds him down to cover Dean’s nipple with his mouth, teasing it hard and tracing it with an arrow-tipped tongue, leaving it glossy red to cover the other.

“Want you,” he bites against his chest. “Want _all_  of you, Dean. _Give me all of you_.”

He sucks Dean’s nipple and Dean feels it pucker tight, tighter still at the anticipation of teeth, and he arches into it, pushing himself into Sam’s face, fisting Sam’s hair, wanting to spread for him wide and easy like a girl, ache-y with fever and desire. Heavy with it, lamplight glowering dull red behind his eyelids.

He totally forgets to complain about Sam’s jeans, because Sam is on top of Dean and Dean needs to be touching some part of Sam, or every part of him: chest-to-chest and tongue-to-tongue, bared teeth and sloppy heat. Onto and into, between and through. Making his mouth soft, softer than Sam’s, soft as Mom’s.

Fear of discovery makes the time feel urgent, frantic and Dean thinks he deserves to be found out. Deserves John’s dark rage. Needs to be beaten to a pulp and left for dead somewhere for fucking his brother up.

But it’s easier not to think when Sam’s thumbs find Dean’s waistband, trace over the blades of his hips, an unspoken question Dean answers by lifting them as Sam withdraws to sit on his haunches, pulling roughly at the offending cotton, taps Dean’s legs to lift into the air. Drags his boxers off his ankles and onto the floor. Runs a finger along the crease of Dean’s ass with a pleased secret smile.

Sam crawls over him, a quick and clever thief, hair like a veil to cover them both, trigger-quick fingers already tweaking his nipples, and Dean’s too caught up to keep track, legs winding easily around Sam’s waist.

Fire rings his periphery as he thrusts up, against the skin of Sam’s belly, unbidden, seeking friction, heat to match his need. Crown of his dick catches on Sam’s navel, the few stray hairs there, snags harshly on denim, but Dean thinks anything this good _should_ be nothing, but punishing. It should sting, if only a little.

Dean turns away from it, from Sam to watch their shadows move on the wall, a single amorphous silhouette. Sam’s head suspended above him. Hears the broken rhythm of their breathing: silence, then a sound like a sigh, then silence again and the steady creak of bedsprings.

Sam’s hands are clumsy, a little cold and the shock is electric. His mouth more so, as he sucks the flesh of Dean’s neck, fingers bruising along his spine and into the slit of his ass. Sam moans and rocks hard against Dean, huge and thick against the join of Dean’s thigh, nothing but fabric keeping them apart. Dean curls fingers around the back of Sam’s neck. Pulls him deeper into a kiss, teaching Sam a new vocabulary in which to understand him.

Sam is the first to break away.

“Lemme . . . “ Sam says, lust-drugged, pressing into Dean. “Can I?  _Can I touch you?”_

And fuck, this is already more than Dean ever hoped to have and he’s too choked up about it to answer, so he nods. Shoulders and thighs pressed tight, Sam’s fingers making new connections of communication as he glides through the middle of Dean, between his cheeks, finding the hollow there, damp with sweat. Hesitates around the edges of Dean with a rough-edged fingertip, unwittingly cruel. And a shiver of delight zips through Dean. Slants his face to Sam, foreheads touching.

“Do it, Sammy.” It sounds exactly like the blessing it is and Dean crushes their lips together, surrounds Sam’s tongue and sucks on it, drinks words from Sam’s throat. Takes it all, endless longing. A face Dean’s known since birth, a body that moves as though it were Dean’s own; and Sam’s mouth hotter and sweeter than any pussy Dean’s ever fucked with his tongue.

Dean’s hands come up around Sam, pulling him in by the belt loops. Wiggles his hands between the narrow gap separating him from Sam. Follows the seam of Sam’s zipper. Sam breaches Dean then, reading Dean’s intent and fills Dean’s mouth with content little moans when Dean pulls him out to cradle him. The sudden weight of Sam shocking Dean, leaving him with a sick feeling in his gut.

It’s Sam. Sam, his brother. His _baby_ brother.

 _“Don’t,”_  Sam begs, breath tickling Dean’s cheeks. “Fuckin’ stop it. Don’t think about it. Please, I’ve wanted this for so long I don’t even remember when it started. Don’t take it away now.”

Sam’s fingers push, relentless and demanding, and Dean closes his eyes and forgets, because there’s nothing left to do, but to lie to himself. Blame it on bad judgment formed of delirium.

The burn of Sam’s fingers is good, fills him with deep agony, like and unlike anything he’s ever tried before, sugar-coated pain more to do with the promise of having and less with the deepening hook and reel motion of Sam inside him. The heat fades as Dean’s legs slide over Sam’s body, linking his ankles over the dip of Sam’s back, above his ass.

“Oh, _fuck,_  Dean,” Sam’s eyes are wide on his, lips curled. “Oh, _fuck_  . . .”

It’s Sam’s brute strength grinding him into the mattress, squeezing the breath out him. Dean struggles to keep both hands around his dick and Sam’s, keeps rubbing them together, not slick enough, but good.

Dean’s close to laughing, close to crying, and feels stupid for it. Because Sam is beautiful: magnificent and totemic in Dean’s hands. And Dean needs to be kissing him now. Needs to be loving him.

Instinct takes over, syncing them, shallow and rough as they fuck length-to-length. Dean raspberry-tipped. Sam duskier, stranger fruit.

It’s taking everything out of Dean to move, but he can’t help searching Sam out. Desire converged to spear-tipped fingers and the shared space of Dean’s fist.

Shifting into each other, Sam’s breath hot on his neck, he winces as Sam opens him further, but the longer Sam keeps at it the better it gets, even with the lack of lubricant. Gets really fucking good, really fucking fast or maybe it’s because anything feels like pleasure when he’s smarting with fever.

Sam’s breath stutters and Dean jacks the two of them, bellies tensing and relaxing in tandem. Clings to Sam’s fingers, bears down to swallow him up again, eager for the three he’s now taking, whole body lighting up and burning up. Sam fucking him up inside and out. Wonders briefly if the moans he hears are his. Feels sorry for the bastard if they’re not, because he must be dying too, like Dean.

Dean’s lost it, caught in crazy, between Sam’s fingers, and his own fist. Can feel Sam’s sac sliding against his, nudging past to drag against his taint, hair damp and crinkly.

“God,” Sam says. Dean can hear the shakiness in him, the teeter-totter play of knowing and unknowing. Nonsense words.

“Virgin,” Sam whispers, “so tight for me.” Dean could really roll his eyes, but he’s too bitter to allow it. Focuses on the push and sticky-dry pull of Sam in him, spreading wide and anemone-like. Untiring motion and Dean thinks he feels the scratch of every callus, every crease of Sam’s knuckles, as he holds tight and greedy.

And Dean doesn’t care to correct Sam’s assumption, because Sam is right, at least in every way that counts, because Sam is the only one that matters.

If it had been Dean’s choice, Dean would have waited for Sam. Dean had been there for so many of Sam’s firsts, even when John was not, it would have been fitting to have Sam be there for one of his.

Sam doesn’t have to know, though. Shouldn’t. Not yet or maybe not ever.

So Dean lets Sam have his fantasy. Pretends it _is_  his first time and he just might let his brother fuck him open. Thinks of Sam deep in him, filling him up and leaving him dripping wet long after he finishes. Dean can’t deny the appeal, his brother fucking him and leaving him on soiled sheets, feeling like he pissed himself, for anyone to find. Gets him jetting strings of precum over his knuckles, forming a tight band around the tips of Sam’s fingers. Slight jerk of Dean’s stomach, cut-off sounds he’s too embarrassed to emit.

Sam soothes him with a hand on his flank, kneading the muscle as he spreads Dean, shoves through each spasm: _quick, quick, slow._  Finds Dean’s hand with the other and binds them together, tucked into each other like twins in a womb.

Sam rolls into him and Dean writhes, hot, so fucking hot, and he howls, flooding out and out and out, out of his mouth, his dick, spilling over into the dark, coating Sam— bellies, thighs, balls, dripping over his t’aint to his hole, easing Sam’s rough slide.

 _“So fucking good,”_ Sam hisses, “So good, doing so good, wanna be in there, wanna feel you come around my dick like you did just now.”

Somehow, Dean still manages to feel surprised and maybe a little proud of Sam’s dirty sailor mouth.

He doesn’t think he’d be much of a fuck now though, boneless and spent as he is, legs fallen open and hand loose around Sam’s dick, hurting too much all over to continue.

Shame scalds him, sure as the fever, evident on Dean’s face as he comes down from orgasm: eyes sliding away from Sam and mouth working open and closed, unable to shape the words they both need to hear. Sam kisses it closed, uses his free hand to gather Dean’s cum to slick his dick, and Dean knows where Sam is going with this and isn’t sure he’s supposed to care, except that he does.

Is certain of it, because he’s got to protect Sam, doesn’t want to taint him somehow. Is about to get away, or insist on a condom, when Sam pops through and it all becomes a moot point. Dean’s silent through it, unwilling to show discomfort, the feeling of _too much_  and _too big_  and _holy fuck, stop_.

Sam keeps coming, inches feeling like miles and miles when it hurts like it does. Dean whimpers in spite of himself, half-jagged sounds Sam mistakes for pleasure.

One heartbeat, two and Sam shoves in hard, head canted down to watch where they’re joined together and Dean is tempted to look and does, dick twitching valiantly at the sight of Sam in him, wide, veiny shaft pulling out slow, Dean’s come—thick, silvery ribbons around the edges, making his pink skin shine bright around his hole.

And it’s like playing at magic: now you see it, now you don’t. Except they’re not kids and it’s kinda sick and hot and punishing with each quick snap of Sam’s hips. Might as well be because Dean’s already half-hard from it, each accidental thump against his prostate, pumping out every last drop of come he can’t imagine having left. Helpless against the diffused pain spreading through him.

Dean does nothing but watch Sam’s face, listen to his quickened breath in his ear. Feels Sam’s balls slapping low enough for Dean to know he’s not as close to coming as Dean wants him to be. Rides the white wave of his fever into the dark, hearing the rushing noise of his heartbeat in his ears as he spreads for Sam, melted soft for him.

“So good,” Sam moans, as powerless as Dean feels. “So good. Want you full of me,” his hands dig into Dean’s sides. “Want you like this,” breath tripping between words as he fucks Dean insensate, jerking the bed frame with hitched movements that Dean’s sure the neighbors won’t appreciate.

Dean’s not doing much better.

“Sam,” he hisses, “Sammy . . . “ Dizzying ache in his bones, his gut, all the tender pink parts of him, catch-glide of Sam, pulling and pushing and wringing him out of everything left to give. Gone limp with overuse and fever, his head lolls against the pillow to the side, legs slack and hands falling away and Sam rocking into him deep and deeper and slow and so good he’s burning up again, eyes rolling up in his head, neck exposed to Sam, feels like he’s choking on Sam, feels like he’s flying, his heart clenched tight with soreness. Fitted together like puzzle pieces. Dancing shadows all around.

And long strung together _ahs_ sliding out of him. Tight pump of Sam—in, out— and Sam gathering Dean’s mouth to his, slippery tongue.

He paws at Sam’s ass, bites into the kiss, and it’s all it takes to have Sam coming inside him, a huge messy load that Dean regrets allowing. But maybe not so much if it has Sam smiling against his mouth like he is, still twitching.

Dean stretches around Sam, drawing him in with legs and arms, working to keep his mouth on his, tongue and cock soul-deep in him, filling Dean up to bursting.

 _Keep you always,_ Dean thinks, and feels a sudden wash of relief, like cool air as his fever breaks. Dad probably having killed the thing.

And maybe he can have this with Sam, for better or worse, even though it can’t end well for either of them. He’s seen the college applications at the bottom of Sam’s duffel, knows he _can’t_ hope for the best, but wants it anyway. Because Sam is worth the pain of loss Dean knows he’s too weak to endure. No other way.

He swipes a hand to the side of Sam’s face and Sam smiles up at him, shy and a bit silly and embarrassed. Begins to giggle, enough to make Dean frown at him.

“What?”

“You feeling better?”

Dean rolls his body underneath Sam. “Yeah.”

Sam’s mouth twitches.

“Spit it out.”

“You realize,” Sam begins, “I just healed you,” pregnant pause, _“with my cock.”_

Dean kicks him off at that, “You wish,” and grimaces at the mess Sam made of him. _“Gross!”_

Sam smiles wider.

Dean smiles back, then pounces, pinning Sam down with the need to ride and kiss and drag his fingernails all over him and dirty him up. Everything changed between them, yet somehow the same.

And yeah, maybe Dean can have this. If only for a little while.


End file.
